


It Isn't About Love (But Maybe, Just Maybe, It Could Be)

by shan_love



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gen, Teen Angst, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shan_love/pseuds/shan_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm not sure why I'm writing this or if you'll even read it but I have to. Even if it doesn't change anything, I need you to know how I feel so that, maybe, you'll understand. </p><p>Merlin, I hope you understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eternally Yours

_My dearest flower,_

_I’m not sure why I’m writing this or if you’ll even read it but I have to. Even if it doesn’t change anything, I need you to know how I feel so that, maybe, you’ll understand._

_Merlin, I hope you understand._

_It’s never been about love; it’s always been about control. The idea that you can take me anywhere, anytime, and there’s nothing I can do – want to do – about it. It’s what gets you off, what keeps you coming back to me. How far can you push me this time? How close can we come to getting caught? How many times will I let you punish me for crimes I’ve never committed before I walk away? Before I say enough?_

_You’re never gentle but why should you be? What reason have I given you to make this about more than the physical act itself? If anything I’m just as desperate, if not more so, than you are. I was a dead woman walking until you breathed your life into me, until you gave me something I didn’t even know I’d been missing. You’re not the other half of me, you’re not what I aspire to be; I wish it was that simple. Heart and soul, in and out, from one end to the other, you are me, all of me._

_All it took was one look, our eyes meeting across the Great Hall, and I was lost. I knew then that I had to have you or, more accurately, let you have me. I’d always considered myself a strong person, at least until you took me that first time, our bodies pressed together against the wall of the astronomy tower, your fingers plunging in and out of me so fast that I couldn’t breathe. But there’s something about you…something that makes me proud to be weak._

_You’re an addiction, a habit, a drug I can’t quit, a condition that, if left untreated, will consume every last part of me. But it doesn’t matter. The taste you leave in my mouth, the ghosting touches of your hands, the look of your skin bathed in candlelight…I can’t live without you now._

_I’ve tried to tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything and, if our time together has taught me anything about you, I’m sure you do the same. But it never seems to stop us or slow the increasing frequency of our meetings. It doesn’t make you hesitate to take me over and over until the only way I can scream your name is with silence._

_No one knows about us, about our meetings filled with nothing but moans and a closeness that was once considered sacred. We’ve never talked about not telling anyone. Actually…we almost never speak, unless you count the amount of times we cry out each others names. Though, I suppose if that did count, we would have better communication than most couples our age._

_And, Merlin, when we’re together…it’s more intense than the words either of us could ever manage. The heat pouring off our bodies is almost as intoxicating as your scent and, even after you’re gone, we both know I’ll be able to smell you on my clothes, on my skin. It’s your mark, the only thing you do to show the world I’m yours._

_It seems strange that something so medieval makes me feel so wanted, so unbelievably secure. It should make me want to rebel, I think, to fight in an attempt to hold onto whatever I have left of myself but it does the opposite; it makes me want to give in. Like I said before…there’s something about you that makes me proud to be weak._

_They aren’t prearranged, our meetings; I never know when or where you’re going to find me. I get only a moment’s notice before your lips crash onto mine, your hands bury themselves beneath the folds of my robes, and I feel myself lose a little more of whatever it is that keeps telling me this – whatever it is – is wrong._

_But it’s not my dependence that frightens me, exactly; it’s the feelings of withdraw I go through whenever you don’t find me. The longer I go without, the more I feel myself slipping, and I sometimes think that that’s why you wait. Maybe you want me to end this, to demand more from you than you’re willing to give. Maybe writing this letter is exactly what you want and, if so, well, at least I’m living up to your expectations._

_Sometimes, though, I think you’re just as addicted as I am and that scares me almost as much. To think that someone like you, someone so strong, so beautiful, could be so completely lost makes me all but lose hope in the idea of ever breaking free. But then you kiss me and I can’t remember any of the reasons why loving you is so bad._

_I do; I love you, am in love with you. Nothing but love, no matter how twisted, could make me feel so miserable and yet so wonderful. You have a way about you, a way of bringing out the best and the worst in me. But it’s not really all that surprising anymore; I’ve never felt more anything than when I’m with you._

_I don’t know how much longer I can live like this but I feel like, if it ends, I won’t survive it. Like I’ll lose this irreplaceable, unnameable part of myself if I lose you. I’m so hopelessly addicted to you, to all of you, that I don’t know what I’ll do if you ever stop finding me._

_So, for you, I’ll stay lost because, even if this isn’t about love, I love you. I’ll wait in this place of in-between, hoping that, if not now, then someday, you’ll feel something for me, something more than lust._

_And I’ll do this because, even though I know it isn’t about love I think that maybe, just maybe, it could be._

_Eternally yours,_

_HG_


	2. Your Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I italicized all the dialogue here because it's in French but, since they all speak French, it makes sense to just have it written out in English so I don't have to re-explain 90% of the chapter in parenthesis.

I choked back a sob as I crumpled the letter in my hand before hurling it towards the opposite wall with as much force as I could manage, watching with watery eyes as it drifted to the floor. How _dare_ she tell me these things, these beautiful, horrible things and then just…just…I groaned aloud, my closed fist connecting with the top of my desk so hard I was briefly afraid one of them would break. It wasn’t fair of her to tell me that she wanted, that she _needed_ , this. Me. Us.

I told myself that there was no _us_ , not really. That she’d simply been drawn in as so many others before her. After all, I’d always possessed an undeniable magnetism; I could enter a room and have a dozen proposals before I’d reached its’ center. That was the gift my Veela ancestry provided me; a siren’s call that sang out from my very soul and fell always upon receiving ears.

But, even as I thought it, I knew it a lie; she’d been different from the start. _From the moment our eyes met across the Great Hall…_ I groaned again, this time in response to the words of her letter that had etched themselves into the walls of my mind. Could I not be free of her even in my own thoughts? Was nowhere safe from her influence?

I cursed aloud, the sound of my mother tongue spoken with the biting edge of tears making my already sour mood turn darker still.

“ _Fleur? Are you alright_?” a voice asked from beyond the door, Claire’s by the sound.

I nodded before remembering that she couldn’t see the placating gesture. “ _I’m fine_ ,”

“ _Are you sure? I heard…well…_ ” she trailed off, unsure, and I nearly groaned again. Despite all our years together, she was still unbelievably hesitant around me at times. The rest of them were no better: flitting back and forth between unbridled adoration and fear at the drop of a hat, as though at any moment they expected me to rear back and bear fangs. It was exasperating at the best of times and this in _no_ way could be considered one of those.

I realized suddenly that, despite actually having reason too, _she_ had never treated me that way. In fact, she was one of the only people who’d ever treated me like…like I _wasn’t_ special. And, oddly enough, it made me feel so.

“ _Fleur?_ ”

“ _Leave me be!_ ” I cried suddenly, surprising even myself with the naked emotion in my tone.

I opened my mouth to apologize but closed it again, a silent acknowledgement that I was far too preoccupied to deal with that now. Besides, those words would come easier with the presence of the sun, which would dispel my personal rain cloud with or without my consent.

I ran a hand through my hair, and loosed a forlorn sigh as I sank back into my chair. My reflection stared back at me, showing me a girl I barely recognized. This pitiful slip of a girl with bleary eyes and tear-stained cheeks couldn’t be me. Not Fleur Isabelle Delacour, Beauxbatons chosen champion, the one who’d outsmarted a great dragon?

I pushed away from the mirror, tired of the truth I saw in my eyes. I didn’t know how I felt about her, about what we did, what we were. Or maybe I just didn’t _want_ to know. It was so much simpler for this to mean nothing, for it to be nothing more than a distraction from a competition that could easily claim my life. It would be so much better if she wasn’t who she was, if she didn’t love me.

If _I_ didn’t love her.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. And, Merlin damn me, but I did; I loved her, was _in_ love with her. I even knew when it happened, when I fell. It wasn’t the moment I saw her; it wasn’t even the first time I took her. It was, I think, our third or fourth time together. An empty classroom in one of the towers, away from prying eyes. The act itself had been fast, hard, and I’d gotten more pleasure out of the power I had over her than anything she’d done. But, afterwards, we were standing there, our bodies pressed against the wall and she looked up at me, her eyes nearly black with lust, and she kissed me. I hadn’t asked, I hadn’t compelled, she just…did it. She kissed me because she _wanted_ too, because she wanted _me._ And I realized that I’d never had anyone want me before, not really.

There had been other girls before her, of course, and boys too. I was beautiful, popular, and I could take them, so I did. They meant nothing to me and, when finished, I would cast them aside, confident that both of us had gotten what we’d wanted. After all, they’d been compelled either directly or indirectly, by beauty or pheromones or a heady combination of the two…but not her. She was different.

In that moment, she wasn’t looking at me…she was looking _through_ me.

I didn’t go to her again for weeks, she’d shaken me so badly. And, when I did, I was so rough I was _sure_ she’d tell me to stop. But she never did. She took everything I had and, when I finished, I knew I’d never be able to stop coming back to her. Because she wasn’t a fling or a thrall…she was _mine_.

Dropping to the floor, I reached for her letter, smoothing it against my knee. It had been nearly a week since I’d gotten it and every day I spent without her in my arms made the ache in my chest increase tenfold. I’d read the _billet-doux_ countless times, unable to do anything but rage and sob that it wasn’t _fair_. I wasn’t _supposed_ to fall in love with her. But I had. She wasn’t _supposed_ to be the one, _my_ one. But she was.

And I hadn’t a single clue what I was supposed to do about it.

Confessing my love on bended knee in the middle of the Great Hall seemed dramatic. False. And doing anything less seemed…demeaning. I was Fleur Delacour, a Tri-Wizard champion, one of the most talented witches Beauxbatons had produced in over a century. I could do better than a tearful exchange in a darkened room. And, more importantly, she deserved better. She deserved everything I was ready to give and everything I was too afraid to offer.

And she’d waited long enough.

I stood swiftly, an idea forming in the center of my mind. I raced from my room, heedless of the looks the others gave me as I hurried past, and nearly ran headlong into the woman I’d been looking for. “ _Pardonne moi, Madame Maxime_ ,” I said, curtsying slightly.

“ _What is your hurry, Miss Delacour?_ ” she asked, her voice booming in the confined space.

I looked around, keenly aware of the way everyone’s eyes were locked on us. “ _May we speak in private?_ ” I asked, lowering my voice.

Her countenance shifted into one that straddled the border between suspicion and concern but she nodded all the same, gesturing for me to enter her private apartment. She was the only one besides myself to have a private room though, unlike mine, hers had been so since our departure; I hadn’t gotten my own quarters until being named champion. It showed too, her apartments looked almost exactly like her office at school, down to the large desk that commanded the attention of the room; the only difference between mine and the others’ quarters was the number of beds.

I sank into a chair, thankful to be off of my shaking legs, and waited for her to close the door and cast a silencing spell before taking her own seat. “ _Now then, what is it you needed to speak with me about, Miss Delacour?_ ” she asked.

I cleared my throat, wishing suddenly that I’d taken the time to organize my thoughts properly before rushing to speak my mind. “ _I have come to a…conclusion, Madame_ ,” I said slowly, choosing my words with care. “ _It is not a convenient one_ ,” I admitted.

She leaned forward slightly and only my years in her care kept me from feeling dwarfed by her presence. “ _Is it about the tournament?_ ”

Immediately, I shook my head. “ _No, nothing like that. My performance in the final task will not be affected_ ,” I assured her, watching as she tried – and failed – to hide her relief.

I couldn’t blame her for it; winning the first Tri-Wizard tournament in so many years would be great for Beauxbatons and it made sense that, as our headmistress, her first thoughts were for the school. “ _Then what is it?_ ”

I took a deep breath and let it out just as slowly as I’d taken it in. “ _You know of my…condition?_ ” I asked, already knowing the answer. Though it had come out to my competitors during the wand weighing, she’d known long before that; my mother had made a deliberate point of informing her before I’d started school. And the series of…indiscretions that had marked my record since had been more than enough proof of the claim.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, clearly disliking the direction of the conversation. “ _What of it?_ ”

“ _I believe…I believe I’ve found my…_ ” The word stuck in my throat and I swallowed hard in an attempt to clear it. “ _My mate, Madame_ ,” I said finally, lowering my eyes to the hands clasped tightly in my lap.

I looked up at her sharp intake of breath, more than fast enough to catch sight of her mouth falling open before she clamped it shut. “ _Who?_ ”

The question shocked me still and, for a moment, I actually considered not answering her. Until I realized that I had too. If she was to help me…she had to know, at least a little. And that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Her help?

“ _She is one of the Hogwarts students_ ,” I said, careful to gauge her reaction from the corner of my eye. She didn’t look all that surprised, at least not yet. “ _A fourth year_ ,” I added quietly.

“ _Zut alors_ ,” she cursed under her breath, eyes resting on the ceiling for a long moment before she returned them to my face. “ _You are sure?_ ” she asked, raising a brow.

I nodded. “ _She’s the only person I’ve met who is immune to my…thrall_ ,” I admitted hesitantly, feeling my face grow flush as I returned my eyes to my lap.

She sat back in her chair. “ _Does she…return your feelings?_ ” she asked, discomfort heavy in her words. It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with this situation, at least.

“ _Oui, Madame_ ,” I said, unable to contain a small smile as I spoke.

Her hand found her forehead and she gentle massaged her temple, as though my words had given her a headache. “ _You place me in a difficult position, Miss Delacour_ ,” she said slowly and I nodded, knowing that it was true.

A relationship between students was one thing, between students of different ages another. But a relationship between two different aged students who also went to different schools? Add in my place as champion, my veela ancestry, and the fact that we were both female and it was gossip worthy of Britain’s beloved Daily Prophet.

“ _Oui, Madame_ ,” I agreed, meeting her eyes. “ _Please know that it was not my intent_ ,” I added, hoping she could hear the sincerity in my voice. Of all the things I’d set out to accomplish when I’d agreed to attempt entrance into the Triwizard Tournament, finding my mate could not have counted itself even distantly amongst them.

“ _Do you…wish to pursue the relationship_?”

“ _More than my next breath_ ,” I said immediately, watching as her eyes widened at the certainty with which I spoke. I couldn’t fault her surprise; the ways of the Veela were hard to understand for those not counted among our number. No matter my age or hers, for me there was no choice. Hermione was my one. I didn’t _want_ her in my life; I _needed_ her. And I was tired of fighting it.

She sighed. “ _We must speak with Monsieur Dumbledore_ ,” she said, pushing herself to her feet.

I sucked in breath at the implications that would come of that deceptively small revelation. Days. It would take only _days_ before everyone in the whole of Britain knew. “ _Is that really necessary_?”

She eyed me then, her expression curious. “ _Miss Delacour, it’s obvious you didn’t come here seeking permission_ ,” she began slowly, looking down at me with an openly disapproving frown. “ _So, if you came for neither that nor this…I can’t help but wonder what it is you came here for_ ,”

I opened my mouth to respond but, despite myself, no words came. What _had_ my intention been? Was it to have her plead my case, _our_ case, to the _monsieur_? To help me tell everyone? I blinked, only just resisting the urge to slap myself in the forehead because of _course_ it had. I wanted the world to know she was mine.

But first…first I had to tell _her_.

I cleared my suddenly tight throat. “ _I haven’t told her yet, Madame_ ,” I admitted quietly. “ _I don’t want her to find out like this_ ,” I added pleadingly.

She didn’t respond immediately and I was surprised to find myself worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, something I hadn’t ever done before. It struck me suddenly that I’d never been so nervous in my life, not even when my name had risen from the Goblet of Fire.

After what felt like a millennium, she sighed and resumed her seat. “ _As you wish, Miss Delacour. You have…three days to tell the girl. And then we take it to the monsieur_ ,”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “ _Merci, Madame. Merci beaucoup_ ,”

She waved me off. “ _Go on now; leave me. You’ve given me much to consider_ ,”

I stood, bowing as low as my shaking knees would allow, before I left her room and returned to my own as quickly as I was able.

Moving to my desk I slipped into my chair and pulled a quill from its perch. I had waited too long already; a moment more wouldn’t do.

_Hermione,_

_I apologize for not writing sooner and for any pain it may have caused you._

_I can offer no explanation but ask that you meet me atop your astronomy tower at midnight tomorrow. I have something very important to tell you. Please come._

I hesitated then, unsure of how to sign it. Putting both of our names seemed careless – what if it fell into the wrong hands? – but I didn’t want her to have any doubts about who the letter was from. Frowning at the quill clenched tightly in my fingers, mostly at the idea that she could have any doubts as to whom the letter was from than anything to do with the implement itself, I signed the only thing I could think of:

_Your flower_

I rolled the parchment, careful not to smear the ink, and slipped it into the pocket of my robes. “ _Claire?_ ” I asked, sticking my head outside of my room.

She bounded over, her face a mixture of worry and curiosity. “ _Yes, Fleur?_ ” she asked, her voice so low that I nearly had trouble hearing it. Under normal circumstances, her uncertainty would have annoyed me but, having been as short with her as I had been, I figured I’d earned it this time.

“ _You have a carrier bird, yes? May I borrow him?_ ”

She blinked, surprised. “ _O-of course_ ,” she said, crossing the common room before ducking into her quarters and emerging a few moments later with a white-faced barn owl perched on her arm.

I stepped out and presented my arm and clicked my tongue; I didn’t have to wait long for the bird to half-hop over. I was surprised by the weight of it though, never having spent much time in the company of owls; my family preferred songbirds. They weren’t long distance fliers, to be sure, but were much more pleasing to look at and much lighter on the wrist. But, looking at the unquestionably majestic bird, I couldn’t help but think the creature rather impressive.

I shook my head, very aware that I was still standing with a rather heavy creature perched on my forearm and had yet to do anything with it. Quickly, I tied to message to its leg and, with the heel of my foot, pushed my door open enough for it to catch sight of the open window.

With a muffled hoot it took off, its maneuverability impressive as it slipped outside and into the night.

“ _Merci, Claire_ ,” I murmured, just managing to hear her reply before shutting my door and crossing to the window. Catching a glint of moonlight off its wings, I watched as the owl banked towards what I could only assume was Gryffindor tower before I lost sight of it against the backdrop of dark gray stone.

I felt both light and heavy-hearted at the thought of her reading my message. _If_ she even read it. It was possible she’d simply crumple it up and toss it in the fire. I wouldn’t have been able to blame her if she did; upon receipt of her message, I’d considered doing the same thing at least a half-dozen times. But that wouldn’t stop it from killing me.

I took small comfort in the fact that she’d always welcomed me before but, after a week of poignant avoidance, I could be certain of nothing. Though, after my treatment of her, I didn’t deserve certainty.

I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. Whatever the outcome, it was out of my hands now. “ _Until tomorrow night_ ,” I whispered before using my wand to extinguish the light.

“ _Mon amour_ …”


	3. Long Overdue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do not even have the words for how sorry I am that it took me this long to update. I've literally had 75% of this chapter sitting in my fanfiction folder for 2 1/2 years just WAITING to be finished but my muse had just abandoned me. 
> 
> (I hope it was worth the wait and offer my TENTATIVE hopes that chapter Four doesn't take even a quarter of the time to write.)

I pushed the book off my lap and towards the far corner of the sofa with a muted sigh. I’d been trying to distract myself with the lure of knowledge for the last hour but I was fighting a losing battle and, frankly, I was far too miserable to even bother pretending otherwise.

It had been nearly a week since I’d sent the letter, nearly a week of sleepless nights and equally restless days. Nearly a week of peeking around corners and hoping beyond hope today was the day I received an answer. And, needless to say, it was beginning to take its toll on me. I was short with everyone, even Harry and Ginny, and today, during class, I actually _snapped_ at Professor Snape; I think he’d have taken a full hundred points from Gryffindor if he hadn’t been so surprised. As it was, he still took seventy-five.

I knew I had to do something. Ghosting between classes and the tower wasn’t fooling anyone anymore, if it had fooled anyone to begin with; even Ronald was beginning to look concerned and I was sure that if Harry asked me what was wrong just _once_ more, everything would come rushing out in a flood of tears and I couldn’t have that. What we have, whatever it is, or…or _was_ …had been going on in secret far too long for it to come out now.

The thing that killed me was how sure I’d been that she’d…cared. Maybe it was just the workings of a desperate mind but sometimes I’d look into her eyes and see something…else. Something real.

I sighed again, louder this time, as I tried – and promptly failed – to clear those particular thoughts from my mind. What was there to reveal at this point anyway? A non-relationship with a non-lover? I nearly scoffed. Only Rita Skeeter would be desperate enough to try and make a story out of _that_.

“Hermione?” I jumped slightly and turned, heart pounding, only to find myself face-to-face with my best friend.

Harry stood there, his hand buried in the dark hair that stretched over the nape of his neck, watching me with an expression I dared not read into. “I didn’t mean to startle you; I called your name from the stairs but I guess you didn’t hear me,”

I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly foolish. It wasn’t as though no one else was allowed in the common room simply because I was feeling sorry for myself. “It’s fine,” I said with a shrug. “I was just thinking,”

“About anything in particular?” he asked, taking a seat on the sofa beside me.

I shook my head. “No, just thinking,” I lied, surprised at how easy the words came now. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person I’d become, thanks to her. The kind who lied to their friends with a practiced ease, who snuck around and lost themselves to someone who didn’t think of them as anything more than a warm body, who-

“Hermione, did you hear anything I said?”

I jumped again, silently cursing myself for getting so caught up in my thoughts. “I’m sorry, Harry. Did you say something?”

He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

I blinked. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s not like you to not pay attention. Or to put off homework,” he added, gesturing idly towards the book I’d pushed aside. “Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to see something’s been…off with you lately,” he finished hesitantly, meeting my eyes with such an earnest concern that I couldn’t help but turn away.

“I’m fine, Harry,” I heard myself say, the words oddly distant in my ears.

“No, you aren’t,” he said, his voices soft but brimming with sincerity. “What’s the matter?” I felt his hand on my shoulder and it took everything I was not to collapse under the unintended weight behind the gesture. “You know you can talk to me,”

“I know I can,” That was true, at least; I _did_ know that. It just didn’t make the talking any easier. I couldn’t tell him anything without telling him _everything_ and I just…I didn’t have it in me to do that. Not now, maybe not ever. “But even if I did…” I swallowed, feeling like I was standing on the precipice of an intensely slippery slope even as I spoke. “There wouldn’t be anything you could do,”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re _sure_?” he asked when it became apparent I wasn’t going to elaborate. “I do have more than one skill,” he added, nearly making me smile.

“I know that, Harry, and I do appreciate the offer,” I said honestly. “But trust me…this is something I have to deal with myself,”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure,”

He watched me for a long moment and, slowly, nodded. “Alright, Hermione. But if you change your mind…”

“You’ll be the first person I tell,” I said, offering him what I hoped was a convincing smile. It had been a while since I’d attempted the expression and I couldn’t help but feel the gesture sat uncomfortably on my lips.

But it seemed to do the trick as he offered me a nod and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, I’m heading back to bed. Don’t be long, yeah?” he added, the hint of a smile on his features.

I nodded. “Night, Harry,” I said, watching as he made his way up the stairs to the boys dorms.

The moment he was out of sight, I sighed. Harry was sweet, quite possible the sweetest boy I’d ever met, and, though he admittedly had _many_ skills, giving romantic advice certainly wasn’t one of them. Not that I needed romantic advice, of course; I’d have to be involved in a relationship for that.

I shook my head, once again attempting to clear my mind because, really, what good did it do me to think about it at all? Her lack of answer was, in and of itself, answer enough, wasn’t it?

No more. I thought suddenly, pulling my book to my chest as I made to stand. No more thinking about it, about her. I’m tired of not feeling good enough, of not feeling like _myself_.

That’s when I heard it. A soft, rustling rap at the window. With a frown, I replaced my book on the cushion before moving closer, only to find an owl nudging itself against the glass. I couldn’t help but stare, blinking in surprise. Who could possibly be sending owls this time of night? I wondered, only to shrug and push the window open, allowing the bird inside. It wasn’t its fault, after all, that its own had no sense of time.

It immediately flew inside, hooting a quiet thanks before orienting itself on the back of a nearby chair. I hesitated only a moment before moving closer, reaching out to relieve it of its burden. It wouldn’t be for me, of course, but no matter how clandestine its delivery there had to be a name on it _somewhere_ and if it was for any of the girls, I wouldn’t mind taking it up to the dorms with me.

As soon as I tugged the parchment free, the owl hooted and all but launched itself straight at the window, vanishing into the night before I even had a chance to _look_ at the letter let alone identify its recipient. I was tempted to try and follow its path back to the source but banished the thought as quickly as it had come; why bother trying to investigate someone else’s affairs when I had enough trouble with my own?

So I turned my attention to the parchment and that’s when I saw it. Written across the top in an elegant hand I didn’t recognize, was my name.

“But it…it _can’t_ be…” I whispered, even as my eyes devoured the few words on the page.

It couldn’t be…but it was. This, these few scattered lines, was my answer.

I swallowed hard, my eyes filling with tears that couldn’t decide whether or not they should be angry, happy, or desperately sad. I couldn’t believe that was all she’d said. What good did a few paltry lines do my broken heart?

I shook my head, crumpling the parchment in my fist, sorely tempted to hurl it into the fireplace because I deserved _better_. But I couldn’t. Not until I knew for sure. Not until I understood how, if she didn’t care for me, she could sign the letter ‘your flower’. Or, or if she _did_ care for me…how then could she bear to say so little.

I nodded then, squaring my shoulders beneath the thin fabric of my nightclothes, my decision made. Tomorrow night, come hell or high water, at midnight I would be at the astronomy tower.

Beyond that, well…I’d just have to wait and see.


End file.
